


You Don't Vote for Kings

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, King of Hell, Knight(s) of Hell, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part of being the king of Hell is having to deal with the riff-raff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Vote for Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the same line of reasoning that brought us [this](http://attackofthekillermexisaurusrex.tumblr.com/post/80119205273/dean-crowley-and-the-mark-of-cain) tumblr post...

"You're the king of rotten: act like it!"

That wasn't even the first in the infinite string of admonitions directed at Crowley to straighten up and fly right, as the boss would say. 

At first, it stung, the insolence of Squirrel daring to reprimand the reigning king of Hell. The criticism of his blade technique cut a little deeper. By the time the elder Winchester demanded that Crowley surrender the weapon of Heaven for something more suitable, the demon had given up any hope of being treated with the dignity due him. 

Truth is, he'd given up any claim to the throne, too. 

Crowley knew how to wield a blade, was a crack shot, never scrupled to concoct new forms of torture and murder as befit his purposes. What he lacked was discipline. The new Cain gave him that. He mocked his meatsuit, ordered push-ups (like that would help), forced him to train like he was trying for the bloody Olympics. Crowley resisted in his way, all the way from clever quips to a cheap shot about mothers burning on ceilings. That last earned him a time-out, a devil’s-trap bullet lodged in the speech center of his brain. As a reward for a week of good behavior, Dean dug it out and sent him on a mission: he gave him three days to scout for other potential Knights, with instructions only to gather intel and report back. 

Dean praised Crowley for the information, and Crowley experienced only a little discomfort to find that it pleased him. That praise from a Winchester could please him. That somehow he, Crowley, valued the good opinion of something so obviously inferior to himself as a hunter of the human persuasion. And yet. He couldn’t deny that he found himself more and more attracted to him. Not like that, Hell forbid; no power in the universe could compel Crowley to do anything so monumentally stupid as to venture into the angel’s airspace. No, this attraction felt like he'd been ensnared by Dean’s presence. The visceral sensation of repulsion and the satisfaction of union. The hollow emptiness of resisting a summoning and the satiety that came of finally acquiescing. 

When he put it like that, he wondered if maybe this wasn’t sexual attraction after all.

The Mark called to Crowley, even as it sang to Dean. The erstwhile king of Hell wanted to obey, needed to obey, yearned even. And it terrified the spineless little shit, even as he gravitated toward the Bearer. 

The first time the word “Master” escaped Crowley’s lips, he nearly smote himself on his stolen angel blade. Had the Mast- Ma-… Had Crowley not surrendered that particular weapon, he surely would have. To call a Winchester a title of such grave respect and deference... And again, even as the uncharitable thought crossed his mind, he regretted it. In that instant, under the glare of hard unflinching eyes, Crowley had actually dropped his head and fallen to his knees, had actually sunk to the floor before the Master, and begged – _begged_ – for mercy.

“Get up. The Knights of Hell do not grovel. Even before their master.”

“Yes sir, of course,” Crowley replied in something like his old snarky tone, yet with an unmistakable undercurrent of fear. “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” Dean sneered. His air changed to something less formidable as he continued, “I checked up on your little candidates.”

“And how did you find them, sir?” A small note of whimsy drifted through the final word.

“Fucking garbage, Crowley. You giving me shitty options so you look good, or what?”

Crowley frowned. “On my father’s honor, those are the finest demons I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. How did they displease you?” After a beat, he added, “ _Sir._ ”

“These aren’t fighters. I need warriors, Crowley. Or didn’t you know that? ‘ _Knights._ ’ So unless your little crossroads darlings can swing a broadsword, you need to go find me some front-line fighters. Except this time you have _two_ days. And,” he leaned close, tugged at Crowley’s shirt front with his right hand, the Mark tantalizingly heady at this proximity, “you’re gonna find these pissants, you’re gonna unpromise whatever dreams of grandeur you gave them, and you’re gonna see to it that their sweet little asses double up on their quotas. Because if they don’t, you will drag them before me and you will personally eviscerate them, right here at my feet. You got that, Crowley?”

Crowley could only nod. 

Dean shoved him hard and curled his lip in disgust as his only Knight fell on his ass. “I don’t like being cheated, Crowley. I don’t like your damn games, I don’t like your lip. And I sure as hell don’t like your prissy little cronies. So the next time your king tells you he needs something, you will give me what I damn well ask for. Now get up. You’re a Knight of fucking Hell, act it.”


End file.
